


Pressure (part two)

by fabricdragon



Series: Smooth Criminal [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover Pairings, Dissociation, Enthusiastic Consent, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Medical Procedures, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Continues from Pressure (part one)...Mycroft has been captured by his ex-boyfriend Jim Moriarty (and to say it's complicated is an understatement) with the assistance of James Bond and Q, and the tacit approval of MI6... Emotional entanglements complicate professional ones, blackmail and politics rear their ugly heads... And There are more players in the game than anyone wants to know about.





	1. Chapter 1

_I walked into this voluntarily…_ That thought managed to make it to the surface of Bond’s mind somehow as Jim kept him drifting between over stimulated agony and nerve jangling ecstasy.  He would happily kill someone if Jim would just FINISH, but instead he seemed intent on keeping him hanging just shy of release.

“I love watching your muscle’s flex, darling, but don’t worry; those cuffs would hold a tiger…” Jim giggled and then murmured in his ear, “and they have.”

Bond tried to reply and Jim kissed him, pulling his head back and exploring his mouth with his tongue. When Jim pulled away he went back to biting at Bond’s chest.

Bond’s eyes occasionally focused, or his mind did, and he would make sense of something– a curtain, a cabinet, a video monitor– every once in a while he identified Mycroft, watching in increasing desperation.  _I suggested this._

“I’m going to enjoy watching you come up with something in return,” Jim murmured into his ear. “… Eventually…”

Jim crawled on top of him and kissed him as he guided Bond into place, “I’m in such a good mood, James darling, that I think I may actually let you come this time…”

Bond tried to say he didn’t believe him, but all that came out was an incoherent moan.

*

Q placed a call at twenty-four hours exactly: Bond’s phone didn’t answer.

He paced and debated, and was just about to call M when his phone rang from Bond’s number.

“Bond? I was just about to call M–”

“It’s Jim, Q darling;” Jim’s Irish lilt was stronger than usual, “What’s the matter?”

“It’s been twenty-four hours, Jim. I know Bond said not to hit the panic alert and he might give you more time, but–”

“It has?!”

“Yes, and–”

“Wait, James said what?”

“He said that since you took time to let him sit in on Mycroft’s surgery and all he was probably going to give you some extra time but he wanted me to check in anyway at a day, and it’s been a day.”

There was a long pause.

“It’s entirely my fault, Q, I lost track of the time.  James is a bit incoherent right now; give me a bit to get him back?”

“I need to hear from him soon, and M wants to talk to him and SHE’S getting impatient…”

“I’ll have him back to coherence as soon as I can, I promise.”

“Fine, Jim, but please call me back?”

Q sat down with a headache.  Hopefully no one had been stabbed, or blown up, or thrown out of a plane… could you throw someone out of a plane without leaving London? Q was fairly certain that Double O Seven could manage all of it without leaving MI6.  He made himself a fresh cup of Earl Grey and worried.

*

Mycroft had to admit it was a novel form of torture.

The video monitor was good, and where the monitor failed to show everything his own memories and imagination filled in.  Jim made sure he got a VERY good look at most of what was happening.  The microphone pick up was remarkable good too: he heard every moan.

Jim was being ‘kind’ to Bond and letting him orgasm every now and then. _That poor damned lucky bastard!_

Mycroft tried retreating into his mind palace but young Mycroft and Jim were curled up together watching the show, and his memories kept escaping the files.

Mycroft was out of his head enough with lust and memories that the phone ringing didn’t register at first.  _Was that a new toy?...  No, an alarm?..._ he finally realized it was a phone when Jim carefully pulled back from what he was doing, and for the first time in however long, reached over and turned off the video…

That was when Mycroft realized how much he hurt– he’d been tensing his muscles and his arm and leg felt like they were burning.  He tried to move his ‘good’ hand only to realize he’d been gripping the bed rail so tightly that he’d lost circulation.  He finally managed to hit the call button, wondering if anyone would answer…

They did.

This wasn’t the Pakistani family man, but an Englishman– _medical technician, sadist, afraid of Jim_ – Mycroft didn’t want him having anything to do with his treatment.

“I believe you should check with Moriarty before you do anything.” Mycroft watched him warily.

The man sneered at him and got out a vial, setting it up for the IV line. “We have orders for you.”

“Which better be followed.” An unfamiliar voice rumbled from the door. “Remember what happened to the last group of over enthusiastic lads.”

 _Combat trained, sniper, Double O?, lethal, hates me_. While Mycroft was analyzing the new arrival the technician put something in his IV.

“I am following Moriarty’s orders to the letter, Sir,” the technician grumbled.   He edged around the man as he went out.

The large man stood in the door way watching him. “Consider yourself fortunate, Mister Holmes, that Jim has something more pleasant to occupy his attention.”

“I know,” Mycroft said hoarsely, “he had me watching.”

At that point the video screen lit up again. This time it was a recording– it had to be because the large man on the screen in bed with Jim was standing here. _Different bedroom, different location entirely, not recent._ In the video Jim reached up and pulled the man down into the bed with a smile and a murmured “Tiger.”

The man in the room looked surprised at the screen and then smiled, “Oh… That was months ago…”

Mycroft gritted his teeth.  _So this man was another of Jim’s playthings? No… he’d been with him a long time, this was a lover and a loyal guard_. On the screen ‘Tiger’ was kissing Jim and peeling him out of his clothing.

In the medical room the man smiled darkly, “Well, I understand you’re a jealous man, Mister Holmes, so I’ll leave you to go see if Jim wants to have another threesome with Bond. I’m Sebastian, by the way, and I’ve been looking forward to paying you back for hurting Jim for a very long time.”

He turned down the lights and went out, leaving Mycroft alone to watch Sebastian making love to his Jim…

It seemed somehow real, as though he was in the room with them…

He felt Jim’s cool shoulder under his fingertips, his lips on his lips– always tasting faintly of blood…

Jim on the screen was doing things with Sebastian that Mycroft had never imagined– he’d continued his education and practice obviously– and Jim was in the room stroking him and teasing.

“Jim?” Mycroft gasped as he felt lips and tongue ghosting over him…

_Wait, the covers were still there, he could feel the sheet over himself at the same time as he felt Jim stroking him?_

The shadowy Jim with the cool hands and the light touch smiled up at him darkly.  “My Own, really? Have you forgotten already?  I do so love playing with the mind.” He started singing faintly– “One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small…”  His hand moved through the sheets and stroked him to hardness as Sebastian was lifting Jim up onto his lap. “And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all…” Jim giggled as Mycroft felt his own arm–despite the restraints– pull Jim in closer.

“What was in that last dose?” Mycroft couldn’t think, he could only feel, and Jim was having sex with Sebastian and in his bed and his memories had texture and taste…

“And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall,” Jim’s voice got gentler and kinder, and Mycroft’s memories distantly told him that was a very dangerous thing. “I owe you a fall, My Own, My Fallen Angel…”

“If… If I’m your fallen angel, why do I need to fall?”

*

“James?” Jim very carefully gave James some sips of an electrolyte drink spiked with a mild stimulant. “James, did you REALLY tell Q you might give me more time?”

“Wrr?”

“That was ridiculously sweet and very stupid.  I’m glad you had enough sense to have him call though.”

“Call?” James’ voice was rough and his eyes were unfocused and oh God he was so beautiful and raw…

“I need you able to talk on the phone, James, I’m sorry… I didn’t know it had been so long.”

James was lying on the bed starting to breathe more rapidly, his muscles started flexing against the restraints.

Jim smiled and made sure everything was ready… and unlocked the cuffs.  Nothing happened for a moment, rather like the eerie stillness in the moment before a wave crashed down, or a lightning strike, and then James was suddenly on top of him, caging his wrists in one hand and the other hand on his throat.

Eyes like twin knife edges looked down at him, and Jim just looked up at him:  he didn’t move, he didn’t struggle, he didn’t invite… _I wonder what will happen…_

*

Sherlock finally excused himself, leaving John in Mary’s care: Mary the assassin, who clearly had some prior dealings with Jim Moriarty, and James Bond.  Sherlock was certain that she cared for John, but… _how much had she known?  It shouldn’t surprise me that she would know of other assassins and agents, but…_

He forced himself to go over it as he walked.

“No one CALLED; no one said you were rescued–what happened?”  Sherlock went over her expression in his mind: she’d been shocked to see them both… _Ah; of course, she knew John was a trap for Sherlock usually, so… if they were BOTH there, something had gone wrong._

She hadn’t known John had been given memory blockers; she hadn’t known about the electricity…

“I would REALLY like some clothes. Really,” John had said, and Mary had immediately assumed John had been raped… _Was that simply an assumption from her own experience as a spy?_  

Mycroft had asked Bond to help, because Bond was involved with Jim, and it was Mycroft’s attempt on Bond that had triggered all of this…

 _How involved was Bond in the attack on Mycroft?_ John had stated, correctly that Q could re-route traffic and cameras. Sherlock considered the connections: Q and Bond and Jim were all entangled– Q had been brainwashed, conditioned, by Jim, as had John. That’s why the memory blockers and the pain.  John had collapsed at the mention of Bond being harmed and had come out of this snarling at Mycroft– that was clear enough.

Bond had threatened Mycroft– with M right there– as a traitor.  _It was very likely that MI6 at the least wouldn’t object to Mycroft being killed, but would they object to his being captured?_

And Mary seemed to know too much about Bond and Moriarty– the wrong KINDS of too much.

She knew enough about both Bond and Moriarty to say “I can’t even imagine it– it sounds positively lethal.” On the idea of them being in bed together…

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he leaned against a wall, thinking.

She’d been in shock about BOND being in bed with Q and Jim, startled enough to use his full name even though it hadn’t been said…

She’d almost choked on the idea of Bond being submissive in bed, subbing to Jim– which he’d apparently said he wasn’t good at, in John’s hearing…

But Mary knew that: Mary knew, or believed, that Bond was straight, and that he didn’t play the submissive role well even as a mission. She’d been shocked too much to hide it that Bond was involved with a man, and that Bond would submit to anyone in bed.

The simplest conclusion was that she had dealt with him enough to have these things as assumed knowledge, possibly even slept with him herself.  Sherlock knew that sex between agents wasn’t viewed as a romantic entanglement, seduction was a tool that Mycroft’s people used often enough…

But if she had enough exposure to Jim Moriarty to picture his sexual behavior– and not be shocked that HE would be in bed, or topping, another man– and enough exposure to Bond to know his sexual habits…

_How involved was she? Were these just elements of her past that she had kept secret? Things that might well have been on the thumb drive she’d offered to John? Or…_

Sherlock looked up and realized his feet had brought him to old familiar areas.  _I’m not far from the office and Greg… I can help try to find my brother that way…_

_Before I have to ask MI6 how involved they were with Mycroft’s kidnapping…_

_Or ask Mary the same about John._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> countdown  
> it's been 24 hours...

There was a significant part of Bond that was as far from nice as you could get.  All of the Double O agents that lasted for even a year in the field were to some degree cold, cruel people; they usually had a handful of people at best that they cared about at all. All of them could kill on the job without remorse, or they would have been pulled from duty and reassigned.

Only a few of them enjoyed killing, though.

What made Bond one of the best of the Double O branch was that he enjoyed killing– especially when it was someone who had thought they had the upper hand– while maintaining that delicate balance of not enjoying it so much that they had to put him down.

It was a very true thing that Bond didn’t sub worth a damn.

The first problem was that like many snipers, military men, and killers; Bond liked as much as possible under his control.  You couldn’t control the wind, the weather, or who was shooting at you– you couldn’t control the waves, or the currents, or the sharks– but you COULD control whether your SCUBA gear was cared for properly, your knives were sharp, and your rifle was well maintained: you could practice on the range and in the gym until you didn’t USE a weapon, you were one. When you were tied down and hoping someone else would listen to your safeword, you just had to trust that someone ese had done the work as well as you could have: that the knives were sharp and clean, the restraints were secure, and everything that could go wrong had been accounted for and checked– by someone else: not likely.

The second problem was a matter of history. Subbing was too close to being held down and tortured, being held down and raped– even if he pretended to be willing–being held down while your mission slipped away and lives were lost.  Subbing meant trusting someone with your life when you knew damn well that the last time you did that you almost died. Subbing, in short, put Bond into combat mode, and any Double O in combat mode was a lethal machine.

Bond was currently the longest serving Double O agent in MI6– which meant he had survived everything that had tried to kill him, and usually killed them instead…

And he was looking down at a lethal killer, who’d just had the upper hand, and was trying to remember why some part of him didn’t want him dead.

But he didn’t want him dead…

 _He’d held me down, I wasn’t damaged, but he held me down… oh… he’d wanted to hold me down and seduce me? Prove he could make me submit and melt? Alright… he’d been good, admittedly,_ Bond smiled like a shark, _but it was my turn._

~

Jim saw the moment blue eyes went from imminent death to something else, and then James’ hand slipped from his throat to the back of his neck and he was kissed until he was breathless. Jim might have expected breath play, but this was the personification of violence and death and utter ruthless dominance simply kissing him as a possessive claim.  It was very much like being kissed by a living gun, and had the same feeling of being one small slip away from blowing your brains out.

James moved down Jim’s jaw and throat with his mouth and his hand never lost its grip on Jim’s neck.  Jim had a momentary edgy recall of a collar, but James was hot like a furnace despite his ice blue eyes, and his hand was warm, not cold on his neck: it helped.  Jim tried to move his hands– _Nope, James was enough stronger that he might as well have been in manacles, especially without any leverage_ – and Bond growled into Jim’s throat. Jim froze: the sound going straight to his adrenaline as his body recognized a threat, while his mind marveled at the fact that he was being ruthlessly controlled, but not damaged.

James slid his hand from Jim’s neck down Jim’s back like a heat wave, and came to rest in the small of his back.  Hands stretched over head , a hand at his back, and James body pinning him down to the bed while he… _oh, his mouth just found the mark of his teeth from before_ … Jim closed his eyes, waiting.

~

Bond’s inner predator was enjoying himself immensely.  The man beneath him was a mix of arousal and fear, his heart thudding in his chest against Bond’s weight, his pulse beneath Bond’s hand telling him everything. He could feel his arousal against his thigh and his gasps as he mouthed at his throat.  He wasn’t fragile, wasn’t weak, but he was without leverage, and there were restraints– if Bond felt the need.  His mouth found a spot that fit against his teeth exactly…

A voice echoed in his memory, _“I generally figure if you manage to put me down you won’t actually stop if I ask.”_

Bond closed his eyes slowly and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth; tasting the air and calming his adrenaline by force of will. The body beneath his wasn’t struggling, wasn’t…He opened his eyes and picked his head up: dark eyes looked back at him– Jim.

Bond forced the hand holding Jim’s wrist to unlock– Jim slowly pulled his arms down.

“Are you back, then?” he asked curiously, and just a bit breathlessly.

“Maybe.” Bond growled.

“Amazing… I didn’t expect you to let me go.” Jim looked up at him, mouth parted slightly: he looked harmless–looked.

“I want to ruin you.”

Jim smiled, “I was ruined ages ago, but you’re welcome to try.”

*

Sherlock walked into his brother’s building; anyone else would have seen orderly coping with a security disaster– Sherlock saw chaos.  In one stroke James Moriarty had taken his brother, put his brother’s personal assistant in the hospital, and terrified the security apparatus with how thoroughly their eyes and ears had been scrambled. He was surprised to find Greg Lestrade trying to get the people organized.

“Hello, Greg.”

“That’s GREG, Sher–” Greg blinked several times and muttered, “Sorry, habit.”

“You won’t find anything on the main cameras, they were scrambled too well, try the store cameras, ATMs and so on.”

“Already am.” Greg sighed.

“I need to use Mycroft’s officce.  I have a possible resource, but…” _More like a definite answer that might not help,_ Sherlock sighed to himself.

“If you can get into his office, you can use it.  No one here knows the code and we don’t want to break in.”

Sherlock typed quickly at the keypad and got in, to the dumbfounded looks of the rest of the office. He closed the door behind him before anyone else could enter and opened the filing cabinet pulling out the file Mycroft had told him existed, “In the event of my capture or death”.

There were instructions for the office, codes to transfer control of currently critical missions– up to date as expected for Mycroft– pages and pages of things that his staff would need and one note addressed to Sherlock; with a peculiar quote and a reference to an old childhood story…

Sherlock handed the file– minus the note– to Greg when he came out. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but this should help get things started. Call me if you find anything.”  He didn’t wait for a reply just walked out and took a cab to his brother’s house. 

The security was impressive, but Mycroft had given up keeping Sherlock out years ago.

He found the book on Mycroft’s shelf, and opened it to the page he had referenced in this letter.  The quote was the key to the encryption and in short order Sherlock had a password for Mycroft’s home computer that would have taken a team of encryption experts weeks to crack.

The first thing he found was a letter dated the day Jim had apparently visited Mycroft’s office.

 

“There are only two people who could be reading this– Sherlock, or Jim.

If this is Sherlock, then I must begin with an apology: This is entirely my fault, and not knowing what Jim has done to you I have no idea how much of this might be a trigger:  it would probably amuse him to hurt you through me. If you are not well enough then put the rest of this file aside and concentrate only on this one fact: Jim will not readily let me die.

That isn’t a good thing, brother mine.  I also must remind you that you both have faked your deaths quite convincingly, so if you have not YOURSELF verified that I am dead, you have to assume that I am not.

And then you have to ensure that I am.

I am sorry to burden you with this, but make no mistake; the longer Jim has me the more dangerous this becomes.  If you can read the rest of the file it will make more sense, but in case you cannot:

I was entirely responsible for the creation of Jim Moriarty, whether it was my intention or not.

I arranged for his education and training that he has since used in ways you are all too familiar with.

If Jim has me…

I do not want to become what he could make of me– spare me that.  The information in this file will probably destroy any image of me you once had, and for that I am deeply sorry, but it should give you the information you need to find me.

I would warn you against doing any of this yourself, but you will ignore me as you always have.  Anthea has all of the secondary authority to run things in my absence– she may be able to help you. Greg Lestrade has been manipulated into courses of action that should begin as soon as I am gone– when this is over with, perhaps you can apologize for the necessity of it– but he should keep the law enforcement side of things running smoothly.

If this is Jim…

Then you’ve already won, and nothing I have in these files will do any more than further disappoint you in my unworthiness as an opponent. I have very little right to ask anything of you, but I beg you to leave Sherlock out of this.”

 

Sherlock stared at the letter for a long time. Mycroft was always in control– always the chess master– but this letter was… it was raw, and vulnerable, but also as if he had already seen ahead to the inevitable conclusion… and it was dated before John had been kidnapped, before the intervening  time, before he had contacted Bond…

Sherlock thought carefully about what Jim had sent as a trigger, edging his mind carefully around it lest he reopen a particular locked box in his mind palace… it was unlikely anything written could trigger him, and if it did he would probably be able to pull back in time…

He opened the rest of the file.

The first thing he found was a simple note on a file stating that Mycroft was being blackmailed by Charles Augustus Magnussen, the publisher. CAM was apparently blackmailing several people in government, and had somehow acquired evidence against Mycroft.

Sherlock puzzled over what would be blackmail for Mycroft; surely his darkest deeds were all done with government sanction?  True if publicly exposed it could be a problem…

The file labeled blackmail contained things that at first confused him, and then froze Sherlock in disbelief and shock:

  * A list of deaths– most of them ruled accidental– all young men of the same age range who died over the course of several years, all of whom had attended the same school–beginning chronologically with Carl Powers.
  * A newspaper clipping about the death of one of these young men decades ago: a promising student whose life was cut short in a fire while visiting his aunt.
  * A police report stating that the death was anything but accidental: the victim having been taken apart quite brutally with a knife before the house was burned down. There had been an incongruous sighting of a luxury car near the house just prior to its destruction. The death was put down to some kind of drug gang involvement, but no one was sure why.
  * A record of payment for university tuition to King’s College by Mycroft Holmes– for a student named James Murtagh.
  * A returned request for information on a student or alumni named James Murtagh during that year- no records found.
  * A published mathematics paper by the head of the math department of King’s college listing student James Murtagh as one of the co-authors.
  * A listing of students from the school Carl Powers and the other victims attended, noting a scholarship student named James Murtagh, his grade and his age.
  * A request to transfer James Murtagh’s school records to King’s College, where he had been taken on as an advanced student of Mathematics at fourteen.
  * A note from C. Magnusson to Mycroft Holmes with three words: “Coincidence, of course.”



Sherlock went over the file and over it again trying to make it add up differently.  Sherlock had to admit he had data that no one else had– Jim’s discussions of Mycroft as a lover, the letter he’d left, Mycroft’s jealousy.

Eventually he sat back and looked at the  facts, which to someone like himself were spelled out as clearly as a newspaper headline:

After Sherlock had implored his brother to believe him that the murder of Carl Powers was, in fact, murder; Mycroft had found the culprit– then named Murtaugh, not yet Moriarty. Instead of turning him over to the police, or telling Sherlock the solution, Mycroft had taken a personal interest and  eventually paid to send Jim to University– and one or both of them erased some of his student records later.

Since it was admitted that Jim and Mycroft had been lovers– hard as that was to imagine– it seemed likely that it had started when Jim was underage.

Sherlock found himself wondering… _A luxury car? The rest of those boys dead, but most of them well after Mycroft took Jim away…_

“Oh, Mycroft, no….” Sherlock lowered his head.  Mycroft wasn’t behaving in a NEW fashion by attempting to kill Bond over jealousy and possessiveness; it was going back to an older pattern… Mycroft had killed those boys, or both Jim and Mycroft had, once Jim was his lover– his possession.

Mycroft paid for his education and training, he’d said.

Mycroft was responsible for the creation of Jim Moriarty, he’d said.

 _“I do not want to become what he could make of me”_ – that is: what Mycroft had been; what he’d made of JIM…

 

Sherlock worked on collecting himself and controlling his emotions.  Mycroft was correct, he was going to ignore him, but Sherlock was a Holmes and he understood what Mycroft was telling him:

There had been  countdown started and if Mycroft couldn’t be retrieved in time he wouldn’t be the Mycroft that Sherlock knew– thought he’d known– anymore.

Sherlock went over the behavior he’d seen– Mycroft’s possessive jealousy, his attempt to kill Bond even if it put Sherlock at risk, the way he’d looked at times, the way he’d kept Jim’s letter in the hotel–

_I wonder if Mycroft even realizes the countdown had started before he’d gone missing…?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the referenced events are from published stories in this series of course (Even if Sherlock is slightly incorrect about when Jim and Mycroft became lovers, he is right about the age of the relationship)


	3. Chapter 3

“I hadn’t realized how much time had gone by.” Jim moved slowly, as though James might yet pounce on him again, “Q called.”

“What?”

“It’s been a day…”

The utterly bewildered look on James’ face caused Jim to burst into a fit of giggles.

“It has?” James stared at him and then in one rapid movement he was off the bed. He stalked over and picked up his phone and stared at it. “Shit.”

He was apparently dialing Q when there was a knock at the door.

“Sebastian.” Jim stated, and he was proven correct a moment later when Sebastian came in.

“Mycroft was up, he got something put in his line … and you had an old recording of us playing.” Sebastian said as his eyes tracked between James and Jim.

Jim smiled, “One of my special blends, custom designed for him, although it would likely work well on anyone: on him I can almost guarantee the result.”

James held up a hand for quiet. “Q? I’m alright, just… lost track of time.” And then he frowned.

James put the phone on speaker, “You’re on speaker, Q.”

“M has stated that someone is blackmailing key members of parliament and other individuals.  She needs to know what Mycroft knows about this.  She also stated that she wants you to call in, Bond, although I THINK she wants to tell you more information she needs.”

“Does she know I have him?” Jim asked curiously.

“Yes.” Q sighed, “She knows you have Mycroft, and she knows Bond is there temporarily.”

“Does she **care** that I have Mycroft?” Jim asked.

“Maybe?  I think she doesn’t know if she can trust you, and she’s upset about the blackmail.” Q answered.

“How very odd…” Jim glanced at James, “perhaps we should call her?”

“We could.” James raised an eyebrow. “Q? Can you put this through?”

“Give me a moment.” Q said and the connection silenced.

~

M was annoyed when Q didn’t get her in contact with Bond immediately.  She was alarmed when the twenty-four hour mark came and went with no contact.  She was very literally about to have Q dragged in by the scruff of his neck when he called her.

“Ma’am? I have Bond on the line… he is on speaker and at LEAST Jim is there.”

“Hmm. Put them through: stay on the line.”

Q stated, “M is online, Bond; go ahead.”

“M.” _Bond’s voice, a bit rough but not bad, and that was the usual way he would respond to a phone call…_

“You are a difficult man to reach, Bond, do I need to call Fraser instead?” _Are you ready?_

“I would suggest Armstrong, Ma’am.” _I remain unvanquished_

“Ridiculous,” she barked as though this was Bond’s usual nonsense. “Do I understand that Mycroft Holmes is alive and able to be spoken with?”

“I suppose I did speak with him briefly, Ma’am, although it was mostly along the lines of ‘I told you so’.” Bond’s voice was drifting back into his usual insolent drawl.

“When people like Mycroft Holmes are blackmailed, as well as several members of parliament who are on the intelligence committee, it concerns me.”

Jim spoke up, “It would concern me, if it wasn’t me…”

“It is NOT you, Mister Moriarty– or at least it is in addition to you.”

“Really?” Jim tilted his head and looked up at Sebastian thoughtfully, “Tiger? Has anyone else been playing with my toys?”

“Not that I know of, but our surveillance on Mycroft Holmes was always tenuous.”

“And this is?” M’s voice was  sharp on the line.

Bond answered, “Sebastian Moran– I mentioned him.”

Unexpectedly M hissed. Bond’s eyebrow shot for his hairline. “M?”

“An annoyance: I despise losing recruits.”

Bond turned and stared at Moran.  Sebastian mostly looked puzzled and glanced at Jim. 

Jim laughed, “If you like it then you should have put a ring on it– or not thrown him out.  He would have been dead if I hadn’t picked him up.”

“He was not supposed to have been, as you put it, thrown out.” M’s voice was steel. “In any event I need to know what Mycroft Holmes knows about the blackmail.”

Jim pulled Sebastian down onto the bed and draped himself over him. “Sebastian is all mine, my dear, and whether he should have been thrown out or not he was.  You still owe me as well.”

“I have not forgotten. Bond?”

“Yes, M?”

“Get the answers, come home.”

“Of course.”

The line clicked and Q’s voice spoke up, “Call ended.  Bond? What’s going on?”

Jim answered with an amused tone. “Apparently my Sebastian was on the recruitment list for the double O program– I had wondered.”

“Me?” Sebastian frowned, “Then why toss me to the civilians?”

Bond answered that, “She said you weren’t supposed to have been– I expect  that was a miscommunication between the military and our program.”

Jim smiled, “these entire lovely tangled bureaucracies and no one talking to each other– people get lost in the cracks.” Jim put his head on Sebastian’s chest and looked up at him, “what a waste that would have been.”

Sebastian’s arm curled protectively around Jim’s as Bond watched and analyzed…

Q cleared his throat, “I have to get back to work.”

“I will get the answers and be back as soon as possible.” Bond cut the call and turned to Jim, “So as you said: someone is apparently playing with your toys, Jim…I propose we continue working together to find out who.”

Jim smiled his Cheshire grin, the one that was madness and death and most people ran from, “delighted, James.”

*

Mycroft was drifting in a pleasant haze when people came in.  He recognized Jim… oh, and his lovers… _drugs then still– hallucinations_. Mycroft waited for the touches and memories to come back.

Jim injected something into the IV line. “Time to come back, love. Did you have a pleasant time?”

“No.” Mycroft tried to answer, his tongue felt thick.  The phantom Jim sat him up and put a chip of ice in his mouth.

“I can do that, Sir.” The other lover said– _Sebastian? Yes, Sebastian._

“You’d break his teeth, darling.”

“Yes.”

Bond was leaning against the wall, “He’s not even slightly coherent.”

“Oh not at all, James; the antagonist I just put in the IV will be bringing him up, though.”

“You’re real?” Mycroft finally managed to ask.

“I’m on this side of the looking glass, if that’s what you mean.”

“You were here… but you weren’t real.”

Jim trailed fingers down him and Mycroft felt the sheet between their skin and relaxed, “Oh, you are real– the sheets were on the wrong side of you before.”

“What?” Sebastian was looking alarmed and looked at Bond.

“Must be a hell of a drug you gave him.” Bond said calmly, but his eyes were very cool.

“Your eyes look like gunmetal, James.”

“I’ve been drugged a lot, I don’t like it.”

Mycroft pulled himself together as much as he could. “You want something new or he wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe I just want to have you watch, Mycroft.”

“You already did that. I’m not Sherlock– just tell me.”

“M says someone has been playing with you– blackmail.”

“Does she?” Mycroft shrugged, “She always was quick.  Yes.”

Bond looked very thoughtful, “Who, what, why?”

“As to why? Power, what else.  As to who? And what? Why should I answer you? Get me out of here or kill me– but otherwise you get no answers.”

Jim tilted his head, “I don’t think the drugs scrambled your mind that badly– you can’t tell anyone anything if he kills you.”

“If he says he’ll kill me– and quickly– he will.” Mycroft lay back in the bed. “I won’t give up a point of leverage for nothing, Jim.”

Much to his surprise Jim just smiled. “Of course not, I’d be disappointed if you did.”  He turned his head and looked at Bond. “Now you know he was being blackmailed– go report in and I’ll see what I can find, while you see what you can find on your end: Q darling should be able to help.”

Bond nodded slowly. “Jim…”

Jim walked over and pulled James into a kiss. “Run along darling, you can get your payback on me later– for now we have a truce after all.”

Bond simply nodded and slipped out of the room.

“That man will be the death of me,” Jim sighed and leaned into Sebastian.

Mycroft growled in the back of his throat.

“Mycroft, love, if you wanted to be the death of me you should have killed me back when I still had a heart…”

*

Sherlock returned to the office.  It was the best place to gather the information he needed, since he doubted very much that MI6 would tell him what they knew.  Greg was looking for sightings of Mycroft or his kidnappers– Sherlock was watching for signs of MI6’s involvement, for Bond and Q.  Every hour that went by was one step closer to the final end of the countdown: Sherlock poured over the video records with Lestrade, trying not to think. Fortunately being in Greg’s presence was both intellectually taxing and aggravating; it did take his mind off things.

“However did my brother deal with you?” Sherlock sighed, after one more time Lestrade missed the obvious.

He looked up, and said quietly, “Like a pet goldfish.”

Sherlock snapped his head over and looked at the man. _Pain, loss, love, pining, unrequited_. “You?  You’re in LOVE with my brother? That’s insane.”

Greg sat back, “You only JUST figured that out?”

“It was rather unlikely.” Sherlock said, staring at him.

“I’m not STUPID, Sherlock: he thinks I’m amusing, and my being in love with him means he knows how I’ll jump, I suppose.  Wherever he is he knows I won’t stop until I’ve found him.”

“You sound like John when you say that.” Sherlock looked down moodily.

“I hadn’t thought you’d noticed that John was in love with you?”

Sherlock froze and slowly brought his eyes back to Greg. “John isn’t in love with me, he’s married.”

Greg laughed.  He leaned backward in his chair. “You and your brother, always trying to make things black and white, this or that.  John is head over heels for you, but you HURT him.  He thought you were dead, and he took some comfort when Mary showed up.  He was falling apart and she picked him up. So? He loves her; she’s good for him.  Doesn’t mean you don’t break his heart.” He smiled drily, “Mycroft rips mine out on a regular basis, and I doubt he even notices.”

Sherlock stood up and fled.

Greg just sighed, “Should have expected it, I guess, neither of them has any feelings.”

He went back to work without Sherlock until he decided to come back. Sherlock might act like that was pointless, but Greg knew he wasn’t stupid. You don’t GET to be a Detective Inspector while being stupid.  He just wasn’t used to all this surreal cloak and dagger stuff, and they never covered it in detective classes. It bordered on being a Clancy novel, really.

He went out and spoke to some of the people in the shops again.  Not that everyone hadn’t done that already, mind, but it was better than doing nothing.  He was sitting in a coffee shop, completely NOT sulking, thank you very much, when he suddenly realized that the man in line looked an awful lot like the image they’d finally gotten of the ambulance crew that picked up Mycroft.

I mean, it was blurry, seeing as it was from a bank camera some distance away, but…

Greg Lestrade knew that a terrifying number of cases were only ever solved because of someone stumbling over a clue.  _We can’t all be a Holmes and produce them out of thin air, can we?_   But sometimes… sometimes fortune favored the poor bastard out getting a coffee.

As Greg followed the man, he remembered… I’d been out getting coffee when the bomb went off, too.  I should go out for coffee more often.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M hates losing agents... the old dragon is quite possessive.  
> and Greg is a pretty goldfish

Bond walked back into headquarters as he usually did: impeccably dressed and looking bored. Q watched on the cameras, and worried– he’d seen enough of Bond to know that he wasn’t as casual as he looked.  Q put the usual recordings on and alerted M.

He walked into M’s office, “Hello Mother; am I done being grounded yet?”

“Hardly!” she snapped and then the door closed. “Are you TRYING to create international incidents?”

Bond grinned then, “Yes.”

M shot him a genuinely amused look and he got that abrupt snort that was her version of a laugh. Q’s voice came from the desk, “Conversation is secured– hello Bond.”

M sat back, “You had me worried when you didn’t check in.”

“I’m flattered. As it happens, with Mycroft’s kidnapping and surgery the time got a bit confused.”

“Did Moriarty get anything out of you, Seven?”

“Nothing of importance to MI6.  One or two personal things.”

“And Mycroft Holmes?”

“Jim was apparently unaware that he was being blackmailed–and yes Mycroft was being blackmailed, he confirmed that.” Bond’s eyes were focused on some point in the distance, “He wouldn’t tell us who, and the only answer to why was ‘power of course’.  He offered to trade answers for being released or killed.”

M raised an eyebrow, “I take it neither is likely?”

“I find myself torn between obligations…” Bond said quietly. “How private are we?”

M sat back, “Q? how private are we?”

“Very, but, if you are concerned? Testing room four is better.”

M nodded, “The three of us then.” And walked out– Bond followed.

~

Greg followed the fellow with the coffee at a distance, until he went into a building.  He was pulling out his phone to call in when a very attractive woman came up and said , “Detective Inspector?”

“Yes?” he replied without thinking and then paused… something was wrong.

“If you hand me your phone, right now, without sending an alert… no one needs to get hurt.”

“Why should I believe you?”

She raised a hand and brushed the hair back from her ear–there was a small object… _Ah shit, she was being directed._    She smiled again and said, “Mycroft thinks you are a very pretty Goldfish, Greg: he’d be very sad if I had you shot.”

Greg remembered the hostages, the story about the pool: he slowly handed her his phone.

“You are unquestionably bugged, Greg: Mycroft is so very possessive of his toys.”  The woman’s smile was less friendly and Greg was certain she wasn’t JUST being directed– she enjoyed this. “So you are going to follow me and we’ll deal with that before I take you to him.”

“Right.” Greg hoped the cameras would show something.  He took out a cigarette, “May I?”

“Certainly; until we get into the van.”

He smoked until a van pulled up and broke the cigarette and dropped it.  IF Sherlock found it he’d recognize the signal– it was all Greg could do right now.  He got in and the woman got in after him.  There was another man in the van who ordered him to strip.

Greg slowly started taking off clothes and the man took each piece.  When he was down to his underwear he stopped but the woman said, “Keep going”.

“Is this really necessary?”

“You are bugged, as I said, and I also admit to some curiosity…” the woman’s voice was getting sharper.

The man glanced at her and warned, “Unless he tells you to, don’t touch.”

“Oh surely he wouldn’t mind–” she was almost purring and then cut off suddenly and flinched. “Yes, sir.” Her eyes flickered down.

“Do forgive her, she has… particular tastes.” The woman said, but this time without any emphasis, simply repeating.

“Yeah, I got that idea.” Greg was nude in the back of a van and rather unhappy about it.  The man had been putting all of his clothes into a bag that, unless he missed his guess, was built with signal blocking cloth.  They ran a scanner over his body.

“Seriously? You think he CHIPPED me?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded. “Luckily it seems that he didn’t, or at least the signal isn’t active if he did.”

Greg sat up against the side of the van, trying to conceal his body from the wistful looks the woman was given him–he got the impression her “particular tastes” involved something painful.

After a bit the woman said, “You’ll be blindfolded, but as long as you continue to behave there’s no need to handcuff you, is there?”

Since attacking them wouldn’t find Mycroft, no there wasn’t.  He held his hands up carefully, “I’ve been, haven’t I?”

“Yes.” The woman was still reciting flatly without inflection, “I think Mycroft underestimates your intelligence–I suspect you’re almost as smart as John.”

Greg had the horrifying realization that that was a compliment. “Bloody geniuses.” He sighed and they continued to drive as the man put a hood over his head.

After a while he was transferred to another van–still nude– and they continued.

~

Testing room four looked like a cross between a work room and a conference room.  Q was already waiting when they arrived.  He ran a scanner over both of them, nodded, and flipped several switches on the wall.

“If there is anyplace more secure in England I cannot picture it.” Q said with a nod. “Coffee? Tea?”

Everyone got a cup of something and sat down; M gestured to Bond, “Continue?”

“Over the course of time I have put together a tentative background for Jim Moriarty.” Bond said slowly, “However a great deal of this information was gained… under privilege.”

Q expected M to snap at him, or demand answers, but instead she nodded. “What can you tell us?”

“Ma’am?” Q was looking back and forth.  Bond smiled tiredly and held out an arm.  After several glances at M, Q came over to him.

“I’ve been in a forced down position,” he rumbled into Q as he pulled him in close, “I’m still a bit on edge.”

Q glanced at M but… she just looked a bit exasperated.

“Alan…” M sighed, “We are now speaking off the record, as much as I ever can, and it’s just the three of us, all of whom owe debts one way or another.”  She looked at Bond, “forced down?”

“It’s been an exchange of who’s in control, over the last few times.” Bond smiled all sharp edges. “Payback is a bitch.”

“Yes,” M smirked, “she usually is.”

“To get Watson released… well, to be honest, Jim wanted to release him.”

“He did?”

“Yes. But he felt he had to save face–to get something of value for it.”

She nodded, “and you?”

“Volunteered; with Q as the time limit and safety check, which then got a bit upset by Mycroft needing surgery.”

She nodded slowly, “Are you alright to report?”

“For now.” Bond shrugged and pulled Q further onto his lap. Q was mortified, and of COURSE his traitorous humiliation kink started coming to the fore.

Bond was running his hands over Q, right in front of M who… paid utterly no attention. “Mycroft apparently met Jim early, when Jim was a boy.  He paid for his education, I think, and was his lover and… frankly… his abuser.”

“What?” M stilled and her eyes widened, “that… makes more sense…”

“He also deliberately had Jim… trained? Broken?  I’m not sure if he did it or more likely hired someone to do it, but somewhere in there whatever problems Jim had… went nuclear.” Bond sighed, “He outright told us both he never expects anyone to honor a safeword.”

“True, he did.” Q nodded.

“He expects, down to his bones, that if someone gets him down they will do whatever they want, until they get tired of it–his reactions are to go passive, to cooperate with apparent enthusiasm, or to… leave.  He can apparently go catatonic at will.”

“You saw this?”

“I also saw him dissociate involuntarily.”

M hissed. And Q looked at Bond… _yes he was serious._

“He is apparently a brilliant chemist, and has custom pharmaceuticals–including some tailored to Mycroft.” He raised an eyebrow, “and Mycroft knew it, expected it… and as far as I can tell he also knew he dissociated.”

“That is … we expected that they had a history but I presumed it was… later.” M sighed.

“Mycroft has a track record of killing people who got too close to Jim when they were involved–he hadn’t done it since because Jim was shocked– and a bit pleased as well as angry– that Mycroft was targeting me.” Bond rubbed his forehead, “Jim admitted that he is conflicted between destroying Mycroft and, getting him back.”

“Revenge?” Q hesitated, no, that wasn’t right, “Oh… having him back in a relationship?”

Bond nodded. “The point is that his relationship with Jim is an OLD and long standing situation, and Mycroft has been hiding it for years–I expect that would be an excellent leverage point.”

M sat back and sipped her tea. “That would most certainly be a leverage point.”

Q cleared his throat. “John–Doctor Watson– was drugged when he was delivered to my flat by Sebastian.”

“You’ve met Moran then? Both of you?”

“Yes.” Q nodded.

“He’s Jim’s lover, bodyguard, and pet, basically.” Bond said calmly, “And he’s very strong, knows most of what’s going on with Jim, and is USED to him dissociating and having to step in–he wasn’t shocked that Jim had to be gotten out of sight until he came back: he was shocked Jim trusted me enough to let me guide him into a private area.”

M sighed, “Yes. Moriarty must have been the one who picked him up and got him the shot at his former captors.”  She looked off at the wall and her lips tightened angrily, “He was supposed to be one of ours, but the damned fools… nothing to be done now, I suppose.” She glanced at Bond, “Since you slept with them what’s their relationship like? Can we recruit either of them?”

Q stared at her, and then at Bond, “Err… Both?”

Bond grinned toothily, “Yes, while I spent most of the time with Jim there was a time when I was unrestrained and it was all three of us.  I still have bruises, but I think I made an impression.”

M snorted, “Your prowess in bed isn’t of interest–”

“His is: Jim is GOOD.” Bond nodded, “like I said, he was trained at some point, and since then has clearly turned his extraordinary observation skills to that end as well–don’t let him get into bed with anyone if you can avoid it or he’ll turn them right round.”

Q muttered, “And then some.” He looked up hesitantly, “This is all off the record?”

“I will of course use the information I have in making tactical decisions, but it will never be recorded outside of this room.” M nodded.

Q sighed and undid his sweater and unbuttoned his shirt.  When he pulled it off the matching initials and bite mark were clear.

“Bond always did have sharp teeth.” M said calmly. “I take it Moriarty used a knife… and that was clearly after you went off to rescue Bond.”

“It was the first time... at the bondage club.” Q admitted as he slowly put himself back together.  Bond had other ideas and pulled him back with a hand around his throat. Q looked panicked at M… who was still acting like nothing at all unusual was going on.

Bond growled in his ear, “I’m quite wired up… so unless you WANT me to throw you over the table and fuck you…”

“Not during a briefing, Bond–not again.” M looked thoughtful, “although the circumstances would certainly be different.”

“Again?!” Q twisted to stare at the two of them.

Bond shrugged, “We were speaking to someone, and they weren’t cooperating.  I made them cooperate.  I did warn you about the dichotomy between work and personal.”

“For some reason having an agent bugger you over a desk–and force you to enjoy it– while their superior officer makes tea and watches, seems to unnerve a few people.” M sipped her tea thoughtfully and looked at Q.

Q stiffened, “Red.”

Bond let go as though he’d been hit by a cattle prod.  Q nodded regally and retrieved his clothing. “As I already made clear, I may enjoy submission in my personal life but on duty? I’m anything but.”

M smirked, “of course, Quartermaster.” She glanced at Bond, “As I said, I like this one.”

“So do I,” Bond nodded formally to her. “The problem is; so does Jim.”

“So can we get my wayward Double O prospect back?”

“No.” Bond shook his head, “or… not without also getting Jim in the bargain.”

M smiled predatorily.  Q had never seen quite that look on her face, but Bond apparently had and he smiled back with an eerily matching grin.

“Then gentlemen…We need to acquire Mister Moriarty.”

 


End file.
